


Tricks

by acerbitas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, Dungeons, Emotional Manipulation, Fake hurt/comfort, M/M, Psychological Torture, Thramsay is its own warning, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/pseuds/acerbitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon is traumatized about his best friend’s murder.  Ramsay comes in to “comfort” him -- or, is even worse news on the horizon for Theon? And, when it’s all said and done, Ramsay shows Theon the type of affection he can expect from now on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> It gets worse, and the rating will change to explicit as the chapters continue.

Theon lay in the corner of his cell, curled up in the dark. He closed his eyes, hoping it would take him away, but the dark was so black already that it made no difference. He tried to think of happier times, of the moments he shared with his best friend, but Robb's face always turned to rot and blood in his mind.

 _My fault._ Theon winced as a rat scurried over and bit a chunk out of his leg, but he didn’t try to move. He couldn’t. _It’s my fault Robb Stark is dead._

Theon struggled to breathe. His chest felt heavy, and his shoulders were so sore they sent waves of pain stabbing all the way down his spine. The agony had spread everywhere, and he didn’t know what was real and what hurt where anymore.

 _It is all my fault. Death is the kindest relief I can hope for. And if they let me out, I will be shunned by all of Westeros. I will be nothing. No one_. The thought made him curl more tightly into himself, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

And then, the scraping sound of keys grated in the lock. Rats scurried away, parting like the Red Sea.  They ran from the beam of light that cut through the darkness.

Ramsay Bolton strode into the room and gripped Theon by the shoulders.

At first Theon felt his chest squeeze, harder, harder, until he wasn’t able to breathe or speak.  Ramsay gripped him like he wasn’t going to let him go, and he probably wasn’t.  Not ever, not even to die.

“Good morning,” Ramsay told him.  His voice was gentle.

In response Theon managed a wordless croak.  He didn’t want to go back on the cross, he didn’t!  “No,” he managed, before he was too afraid to say any more.

 _Get away,_ he thought, but didn’t say anything.   _Get away from me._

Ramsay knelt down next to him, his fine clothing collecting dirt and rat droppings as he did so.  Theon stared at Ramsay’s knees.

“I brought you some milk of the poppy.”

Theon’s jaw trembled involuntarily.  “What?” he said.  “Mi’lord, I…” _This is not how it usually goes.  Not at all._

“Drink it.”

The pain was so strong, so blinding.  It ripped into him like knives, and he could not refuse.  When he put the bottle to his lips, he felt tears on his cheeks.   _I’m already crying,_ he thought, _and he’s only been here a minute._

“What else do you need?” the Bolton asked, when Theon was done drinking.  “If you need anything, Reek, tell me.  I know it’s hard.”

Theon didn’t know this Ramsay.  He remembered blood, and screaming, but most of all he remembered the gleam in Ramsay’s eyes when he had writhed and pleaded.  “You do?” he asked, thinking: _Liar.  Liar!_

Ramsay cupped Reek’s head between his hands, and leaned over to kiss him on the forehead.  “It’s hard,” he told Theon, “Because everyone in Westeros hates you more for this, because you weren’t there for Robb.  But I don’t hate you, Reek, because I made you.  I have use for you.”

“I know.”  Theon found himself agreeing, even though nothing made sense.  “Thank you,” he said, but he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.  He wanted more of this Ramsay, and no more of the other.  That was for sure.

 _But he’s liar,_ he thought, _I know he lies.  He lied at the beginning and he’s lying now._

“Come with me,” Ramsay said.  “You want to obey, right?”

Theon wanted to be dead, but if he had to live, obeying was better than pain.  “Yes.”

“Then come.”  Ramsay put a hand on Theon’s shoulder, and the prisoner stood.

“Yes, mi’lord.”  Theon felt like a lamb about to be slaughtered.  Even as a child, new to Winterfell, he hadn’t felt as lost as he did now.  He followed, because there wasn’t anything else to do.  As he moved, he felt the rush of milk fill his head, and his pain withered to a dull throb.  If only he had all of the milk in the world.

Theon walked shakily behind Ramsay. The only place he ever brought him was to the maester’s chambers--and he was not injured enough to warrant a visit, not this time. Ramsay only allowed healing when Theon was at the brink of death.  Sometimes Ramsay allowed it after Theon was publicly whipped or worse.  Oh, Theon went outside for that too.  Ramsay would tie him out in front of the guards and whoever else might be passing.

Theon felt the lump in his throat that always threatened tears.   _That must be where he’s taking me._

“Please don’t?” he said, thinking of the whip and the blood and--and--

Ramsay gripped Theon’s shoulder with a firm hand, but this time, the touch was almost comforting. It gave Theon a confused, churning feeling.

“I will not hurt you,” Ramsay told him in a low, calm tone. “Not today. Come.”

So Theon went on. They walked up to the kitchens, and not a single person was in the Great Hall. Theon realized he had lost track of all time in the constant dark of the dungeons.

 _Night,_ he thought, _it’s night, and I didn’t even know it._

“It is the dead of night,” Ramsay told him matter-of-factly, as if he had read his mind. “All the workers are gone to bed. It is just you and I, now. Let me be your host. Eat your fill. I dare say you have earned it.”

Theon stared at the ground, waiting for some twisted jape, but none came. He watched silently as Ramsay moved about the kitchen, pulling plates from cabinets and food from the stores. Soon Ramsay set a plate in front of Theon loaded with thickly-buttered mashed potatoes and green vegetables. Theon hadn’t seen the likes of in months; he saw a roasted bird with a crispy skin, still sizzling.

Theon stared at Ramsay, puzzled, but Ramsay just sat down next to him on the neighboring chair. _I don’t understand,_ he thought.   _I will never understand him._

“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. Eat.”

“Yes, mi’lord,” Theon said, and with a sinking feeling he realized his responses were becoming automatic.

 _Oh, mi’lord!_ he recalled a common woman whispering to him once, in another lifetime.  By the end of the night, she’d wanted them to “run away together,” and he hadn’t come back after that. In this life, he sat down at the table, staring at the food in front of him and trembling.

“I’m not supposed eat such nice food?” he asked, still afraid that this was a trick, a test of understanding.

“You do when I tell you to.”  Ramsay’s voice was commanding but gentle.  “You do what I tell you, right?”  It was said without malice, like Theon needed Ramsay to tell him, somehow.

Theon nodded, and the hunger churning in his gut removed his final doubts.  Once the food touched his tongue, he couldn’t stop.  Tears ran down his cheeks as he chewed, dripping onto his plate and the bird as he ripped into it.  Even the pain of his broken teeth was worth it.

Ramsay watched him eat, before standing up and disappearing into the next room.  At that, Theon was frozen; he was alone and he wasn’t behind bars or chained.   _But there is nowhere to run,_ he realized, _I’m a traitor everywhere._  And it was something else, too.  The mantle he wore, the one of Reek, it felt more real than he did.

 _I should go,_ he thought, knowing he wouldn’t make it.The place where he usually kept his bravery was empty, like it had all escaped in the night and left him here alone. _Or maybe I used it all up._

Theon gripped his fork with one hand.  He imagined it in Ramsay’s throat, stuck so deep the bastard would choke a long time before dying.

He was still imagining when Ramsay returned with a small bottle of wine.  He uncorked it, and pushed it across the table to his captive.  “For you.”

“T-thank you,” Theon managed, fear still pulsing in his gut.  He swallowed the wine down, more and more.  HIs brain was overwhelmed; what to eat next?  It was all too much.  Instead of homicidal thoughts, gratitude filled him like melting snow.

“Do you feel a little better now?” Ramsay asked, when he was nearly finished.

Nodding vigorously, Theon scooped up the final carrots and ate them too.  “Thank you,” he said.  “Please,” he added, wondering how many times he had said that to Ramsay by now.

“Don’t worry,” Ramsay told him, “and just come.”

 _"You want to obey, right?" Yes,_ Theon agreed, _I do.  And I am a craven because of it._   He followed Ramsay through the confusing maze, until they arrived at a luxurious chamber.

“This is my chamber,” Ramsay told him.  “I want you to sleep here with me tonight.”  There was a small flash in Ramsay’s eyes, then, a flash Theon had learned to dread.

But Ramsay was being so generous, so generous to a traitor with nowhere else to go. _I should be grateful,_ he thought, and he was.  “Thank you,” he gushed, ignoring how his gut ached with worry, worry about Ramsay in the bed with him.  He had seen Ramsay hard before, when he had not been so kind.

 _I should have stabbed him,_ Theon thought belatedly. _I should have stabbed him and run. He just might fuck me._

“First let’s get you all cleaned up. And find you something proper to wear. Those rags stink like the seven hells.”

Theon opened his mouth to apologize, but Ramsay had already started filling up a tub in the adjacent wash room. He let the water run almost to the top of the tub and filled it with different types of soaps from a collection of bottles on the counter.

Theon didn’t say a word, and kept his head down as Ramsay silently stripped him and eased him into the tub.   _He likes me dirty,_ he thought, _so why is he doing this?  Why?_

Theon didn’t want Ramsay to see him.  He was bruised and flayed and disgusting and thin and...and.  He was useless.  The whip marks on his back stung when they came in contact with the water, and he flinched under Ramsay’s touch.

“I want to make you feel better,” explained Ramsay as he scrubbed the layers of dirt off of Theon’s bruised flesh. “I admit I have my proclivities. Am I a monster? Yes, yes I am. But after learning that your true friend--your only friend, I’m afraid--is dead, you deserve a break. Even someone such as I is capable of recognizing a need for such mercies.”

Theon bit back a whimper and blinked the tears away. Thankfully, they stayed behind his eyelids this time.   _Does he really?_ He thought to himself.   _No, no!_ Another voice said, he doesn’t.   _He might,_ a third voice said, soft and desperate.   _It was my fault.  I made him angry before._

When Theon was cleaned up and rinsed, Ramsay used the same bottle of soap to clean his hair, running his fingers through the suds until his hair was tangle-free and smelled like pine woods. He even used a clean, damp cloth to wash the inside of Theon’s mouth and clean his teeth gently.

Blood pooled on the cloth and sunk into it, and his mouth ached at every poke and scrape.   _He hurts even when he is kind._

“Up,” Ramsay instructed gently, easing Theon out of the tub. “Let’s find you something new to wear.”

He gave Theon a pair of long, loose breeches made from a soft material that did not chafe his flay wounds, and a loose tunic to wear with it.

Theon pulled the clothes on as quickly as he could. The discomfort made him struggle with dressing, and Ramsay came over to assist, running his hands over Theon’s flesh in ways that made his blood run cold.

Ramsay’s caresses made him feel like he was still naked, even though he wasn’t.   _But, but I want,_ he thought. _I want.  I need._ He needed Ramsay’s kindness, because he hadn’t had any for so long.

When Theon was dressed and dry, Ramsay led him to the bed.

“You’re shivering. There’s five quilts on here, that should warm you up fast. Lay down.  I’ll start a fire in the fireplace.”

Theon climbed into bed and burrowed beneath the blankets. It was so warm, and clean, and soft, and felt so good. He stretched his legs out and sunk into the pillows with bliss. Ramsay was right; the comfort and warmth soaked away all his pain, and soon he fell into a relieved state of sleep. For once, he did not dream of pain.


	2. Useless

A horn blasted, and Theon bolted up in bed. The fire had gone out, leaving the room pitch-black. Theon could barely see. The big, bulking silhouette of Ramsay Bolton sat in the chair opposite Theon’s bed.

Bolton’s shadow got up to light a candle. What Theon saw in the dim light made his mouth go dry.

Ramsay wore a hooded mask over his face, and he was holding his war-horn.  He had put on his human-skin gloves and the cloak he wore when flaying.  He used them to keep to keep the blood off of his finery.

_Oh gods,_ Theon thought, _I knew it.  It’s been a jape all along.  Why didn’t I do anything when I had the chance?_

In one fluid motion, Ramsay yanked Theon’s blankets off and pinned his arms behind his back. Then Ramsay dealt him a hard blow to the face. Theon tasted blood in his mouth.

“If you move,” Ramsay hissed into his trembling captive’s ear, “I’ll finish flaying the foot I started today, and make you wear a collar of the skin.”

Theon nodded. He clenched his toes, the only part of him still covered.  He clenched them so hard he felt his flayed flesh rub on his skin.

“I have a letter for you,” Ramsay continued. “Or, rather, a letter that is written to me, but pertains to you. I am sharing it out of the kindness of my heart. One interruption from you, of _any_ kind, will not be forgiven.”

Theon whimpered, watching as his tears fell onto the bedsheets. Mere hours ago Ramsay had taken mercy on him and fed him.  He’d even given him wine, a bath, and the comfort of a warm bed. What had Theon done to deserve this sudden change? What did he do wrong?

_Maybe he’s mad because I would not whore myself.  Maybe that’s what he wanted all along._ But Theon knew he would do it, if it meant he wouldn’t be flayed.  He would do anything for that.

Ramsay jabbed Theon in the ribs, and he flinched, remembering he needed an answer.

“Yes, mi’lord,” he said softly. “Thank you, mi’lord.”

Ramsay walked over to retrieve a slip of parchment from his bedside table. He moved with slow, calculating steps that made the hair rise on Theon’s neck.

“Lord Bolton,” he began, reading loudly and dramatically. “I have received the letter that you wrote in regards to my son Theon. I know you thought your threats and fear tactics would sway me. However, we Greyjoys do not bend so easily, and the remaining members of the Greyjoy family are managing just fine. This boy that you attempt to lord over me has, in fact, little value. He was the last of many.  If he ever does bear sons, I will not view them as Ironmen, or even Northmen. Henceforth, I have no regard for him or his fate.  You can do as you wish knowing that you hold no power over me or the Iron Islands. Signed, _Balon Greyjoy._ ”

The scream Theon was holding back turned into bile in his mouth; it was only the threatened flaying that enabled him to swallow it back down.  He felt nothing but his own breathing, and heard nothing but a deafening roar in his ears.

Ramsay peered at him, his beady eyes lit up by the candlelight.  “You’re father knows you are useless.  And so now you are useless to me, too.”

Theon grabbed at his sheets, whimpering, not knowing if he was supposed to respond.   _No,_ he thought, _no!  He’s going to...he’ll…_ Theon could not think of what Ramsay would do.

“You can speak now.”

Shutting his eyes, Theon breathed in slowly, and then out.  It seemed to make him worse instead of better.  “Please,” he said.

“Please what?” Ramsay snapped.

_Please kill me quickly,_ Theon thought.   _Please don’t leave me in the dungeons in the place with no windows and nobody and no food and nothing.  Please don’t flay me._ But he said:  “Please don’t get rid of me.”

He didn’t know why he said it.   _You stupid cow,_ he told himself.   _You sound like a maid._

Ramsay started to laugh; he put his hand on his forehead and laughed even harder.

_What’s funny?  What?_ Theon heard himself keening, an inhuman sound, as if he was a dog.   _If I’m useless what will he do?  Can I die now?_

“Ask me again,” Ramsay commanded, pointing a finger at the floor.

Theon crawled out of the bed and kneeled.  The hard stone scraped on his wounds.  He stared at the skin-covered glove in front of him, heart pounding.  “Please don’t get rid of me,” he repeated.  Reek repeated.   _Why?  Why didn’t I say: “Let me die.”?_

“No more talk about how I should send you home, because you’re a prince?  The only living son of Balon Greyjoy,” Ramsay said, in a singsong voice, “heir to the Iron Islands.”

“That was wrong.”  Theon heard himself sobbing, and cursed himself.  He thought about his stupid fork, and how he had had it in his hands just hours ago. “It was a mistake.”

“Oh?  But you reminded me ever so many times.  Were you lying to me?  I don’t like it when you lie: I have to hurt you.”

Theon didn’t have anything to say, besides craven things, and he didn’t want to say them yet.  He knew he would say them all by the end.

“I recall you told me you were of great value.  You told me your father would pay handsomely for you, so I should give you mercy.”

“It was a mistake,” he said again, almost believing it himself.  “I’m your Reek.”

Ramsay flung the letter onto his desk, and yanked his flaying knife from his belt.  “Oh?”

“I’m Reek,” Theon repeated, desperate now.  “I know I’m your Reek.  I only belong here.”

_It’s easier to just be Reek,_ he thought _.  Reek didn’t kill anybody.  Reek’s best friend didn’t die, because Reek doesn’t have any friends._

“And where is here?” Ramsay asked.  “In my bed?  In the dungeons?  In the kennels?  Where?”

“...Wherever you want me to be.” The prisoner knew now why he is here, in Ramsay’s chambers.  And then?  He was floating, separated, apart from himself.

Ramsay chuckled.  “That doesn’t sound like a very princely sentiment.”

Theon watched himself push his palms against his forehead, and watched himself tremble.  “I was confused.”   _I was confused; I swear it.  Just confused._

“You were confused about whether you were a smelly servant named Reek, or a princeling?”  Ramsay sounded disbelieving.

Reek had nothing to say to that, because it sounded so ridiculous when Ramsay said it.

“Why should I keep you?  You made me think you’re worth something, and you’re not.”

_Oh gods,_ he thought, _oh gods.  Why did I do that?_ “You said you made me.”  As soon as he said it, he regretted it.  Surely, surely that was the wrong thing to say.

“I did, and I did make you.”

Reek waited, and when Ramsay didn’t say anything else, he said:  “Please just let me die.”

Ramsay sighed, as if Reek was very stupid.  “I’ve wasted too much time on you for that.”

“I’m sorry, mi’lord.” Reek said.

“I’m going to flay your toe tomorrow,” Ramsay told him flatly.  “To teach you not to lie.”

Reek swallowed, trembling; it was easier to tremble and be afraid when he was Reek.  He nodded.   _He was nice before.  If I can just endure it, and take it, maybe I’ll eat well again._

Ramsay ripped off his gloves and threw them to the floor.  “You’re going to have to have other uses, now.”

_Other...uses?_ Reek didn’t want to think about it.  Maybe if he didn’t think about it, it would almost go away.  When he had been at Winterfell he hadn’t thought about being a captive there, and it had almost gone away.   _I’m not him anymore, though,_ he thought, _I’m not._

Ramsay grabbed Reek’s hair, pulling on it until Reek was halfway up, barely on his knees.  “I don’t see you smiling now,” he told him.

“No?” Reek agreed.  His skull pounded with pain.

“Aren’t you happy I have a use for you?”

Reek felt tears on his cheeks.  “Yes.  But I’m not supposed to smile, mi’lord.  Please?” He wanted down, but he couldn’t...couldn’t.

Ramsay released him, and he collapsed to the floor.

“It’s nice you remember,” he admitted, with just a whisper of his former kindness.  “Now bend over the bed.”


	3. Blood

The terror Reek felt was something beyond what he had ever felt before.  In his skull he felt a pounding fury, screaming at him to run.  It was only natural to want to run.

 _Obey rhymes with flay,_ a mad whisper came to him.   _And Reek rhymes with weak._  It didn’t matter that it was better to be cruel than weak, now.  That was what he was.

“Bend over the bed,” Ramsay repeated, with all the soft, fake kindness he had in him.  “If I have to tell you again, I’ll take a finger.”

Reek stood up, and went.  Ramsay followed, and Reek flinched as Ramsay’s hips touched him from behind.  The prisoner could feel Ramsay’s erection through his clothes.

Reek thought about the fork again, and how craven he was.  If Ramsay had died, wouldn’t they have executed him for it?  That would have been better.  Instead, Reek had this.

Ramsay leaned over, body pressing against his captive’s, to whisper: “I’ve wanted to fuck you for awhile, but you were a hostage.  Now you are just mine.”  He ran his fingers down Reek’s side, teasing the wounds that he could feel through the clothing.

Reek whimpered, and as he felt Ramsay’s hands meet his crotch, he jerked involuntarily.

“I think I could get you going,” Ramsay told him.  “Couldn’t I?  I’m sure it’s been a long time.”

 _Oh gods,_ Reek thought, as he felt a tingling in his crotch, _I don’t want it.  I don’t, no.  No._  But it was happening anyway, because it had been so long.

“Knowing your reputation, I’ll probably have to cut this off soon,” Ramsay told him.  “I can’t have you disloyal.  Can I?”

“I’ll be loyal,” Reek babbled.   _That was Theon, not me,_ a small voice said. _It’s not fair._ “I’ll do whatever you want.  Please dont do it, mi’lord.  Please.”  He stopped and gasped for breath.  “I’ll please you.”

 _Let me please you, mi’lord,_ he remembered more than one whore saying to him, or, to Theon. You’re awfully handsome.

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Ramsay told him.  “But for right now, stop squirming.”

Instead of squirming, Reek buried his head in the soft covers and let out a scream.  He felt dizzy and sick, and filled with fear so primal he thought it would never go away.

“Reek belongs to Ramsay, and Ramsay belongs to Reek,” Ramsay purred into his ear.  “Don’t you think so?”

Reek screamed again, his drool sinking into the sheets.   _He’s not even doing anything yet,_ he thought.   _Oh gods._

“I thought you would be happier.  What, with all your fine clothes, and how happy you were to be in my bed.”

The blanket was now soaked with drool, and it was all Reek could do not to piss himself.   _That wouldn’t please him,_ he thought, feeling madness slipping into him like poison.   _Or it would.  I don’t…I don’t know._

Ramsay reached down to touch Reek again, and Reek wanted to struggle more than anything.  But he couldn’t, not if he wanted his fingers and his cock and...and Ramsay was stroking him.

 _If he’d just do it and get it over with already!_  Reek thought, snot crawling from his nose.  It settled in with his drool and tears.

“I know,” Ramsay whispered, “you’re a virgin.  Is that it?  Do you want me to make it easier?  I was just surprised, I always thought you and Robb were close.  Or were you on top?”

Reek screamed silently this time, clawing at the blankets, looking for something to hold.  He felt Ramsay’s hand slip around his waist, and find its way to his pants.

His pants dropped to the floor, and he heard Ramsay undoing his own.  Ramsay’s belt fell to the floor, and then Theon felt Ramsay pressing against him.

“Alright,” he said, “I know you’re impatient.  Time to begin.”

Theon started to scream, then, in earnest.

 

The sun had risen by the time Ramsay finally re-buckled his breeches and retreated to sit in his armchair by the fire. Theon slid down off of the bed and collapsed into a pile on the floor. Pain and exhaustion had finally exceeded the limits of what Theon could take; he tried to stand, but found himself unable.

The floor under him was slippery, and when he forced his eyes open again, he realized he lay in a pool of blood. Too much blood. It pooled into the carpet and stained his flesh, making the whole room smell metallic.

Theon tried to push himself into a sitting position, but a jab of agony jolted through his stomach and he had to lie back down again. He found his throat hurt too much to whimper. Ramsay had had his way with that, too.

Theon slowly dragged himself under the bed and curled into a ball, shivering in the pool of his blood. From his hiding place, he could only see Ramsay’s boots. They did not move, and Ramsay did not say a word. He knew his captor could not see him here, but he still felt the soulless pits of his eyes, watching him, draining him.

Theon groaned, and all he could think about was dying.  He knew the blood loss wasn’t going to kill him, but he hoped for it.  He hoped Ramsay would take mercy on him and let him die.  What else could he possibly want?  Except more of the same, and Theon couldn’t bear that.

Vaguely, he heard himself sniffling, and felt pain like a sword running up his spine.  He kept his eyes fixed on Ramsay’s boots.  Theon’s skin was icy and his teeth chattered.  When he remembered Ramsay was going to flay him tomorrow--today--he whined like an injured dog.   _No,_ he thought, _no please.  I’ll do anything._

“If you don’t come out,” Ramsay told him, “we’re going to start from the beginning.”

 _No,_ Theon thought, _just let me stay here.  Please.  Just let me stay here.  I can’t._  But he started to drag himself, anyway.  When he was out, he blinked in the daylight, and cringed away from Ramsay.  His fingers were sticky with his own blood.

“Good,” Ramsay told him.  The bastard knelt next to him, and clutched his prisoner’s hair.  He dragged him closer, ignoring Theon’s sobs.  “If you do anything else disobedient today, I _will_ flay that toe off.”

Theon didn’t say anything, because all his pleading had got him nowhere.  If Ramsay wanted to flay all of him, if Ramsay wanted to fuck him again, that was what would happen.  Nobody, neither Ramsay or the gods, was listening.

“But I feel pretty good now.  If you obey, I won’t hurt you.  Do you understand?”

Theon nodded, whimpering because he didn’t believe anything Ramsay said.  Ramsay would hurt him regardless.  He knew now.  He understood.

Ramsay examined the pool of blood; it was much smaller than Theon had imagined in his terror.  “It appears my pet has made a mess.”

“I’m sorry,” Theon sobbed.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Ramsay said, almost cooing.  He ran his hands over Theon’s head, as if he was a dog.  Then he stood up abruptly, and went out of his bedroom.

Theon was too afraid to move, even though all he wanted was to go back under the bed.  Panting he scanned the room for weapons, a half-baked suicide plan swimming through his head.  But he didn’t see any weapons, and regardless it would have been foolish to try.  He could barely move.

Ramsay returned, and Theon shuddered, his eyes darting wildly.  In his hands the bastard clutched some cloths, some wet and some not.  He also held some clean clothes.

“Don’t worry,” Ramsay said, quietly, tenderly, “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you if you obeyed.  Don’t you believe me?”  He started swabbing Theon’s dirtiest parts with a wet cloth, easing the other man into a sitting position as he did so.  Pain ran screaming up the prisoner’s spine.

“I believe you,” Theon said, not believing him for an instant.   _Anything, anything at all can be labeled as a disobedient.  He’s like a wild animal._  “Thank you, m’Lord."

Ramsay smiled at him, and in the candlelight he looked especially grotesque.  “Oh, but aren’t you my dog?”  He tugged at Theon’s shirt, and Theon reluctantly helped him take it off.

“Yes, yes,” Theon agreed.  “I’m sorry.  I mean I’m whatever you want.  Whatever you want.”  Theon would say anything to keep Ramsay’s belt buckled and his knife in its sheath. "Master?"

Ramsay chuckled.  "That sounds about right."

Ramsay left him thoroughly dirty but did let him put on his new clothes.  They were more rough than the others, and they scraped his wounds, but Theon was grateful to be clothed.  He couldn’t stand another instant of Ramsay’s gaze.

Ramsay threw the remaining cloths on the ground.  “Clean up your mess, and then come back to bed with me.”  Casually his captor eased into bed, a smile on his lips.

Theon set to work cleaning up his own blood, dreading having to crawl into bed with Ramsay. _I don’t want him near me,_ he thought, _I don’t want him touching me.  Please…_

Nobody listened.


End file.
